


Faith as Strong as Song

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day of the Olympics, and Zayn is freaking out. With some talk, an unconventional kiss, and steadfast belief, Liam helps him get his head back in the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to Ana, for holding my hand this entire fic. This is for YOU! (based on a prompt from the Ziam ficathon, prompted by mmalfoys)

  
  
  
Zayn goes missing right after their first rehearsal on the lorry, ducking through the doors of the stadium like a ghost.  
  
At first, the boys don't notice, assuming he's gone for a smoke or to call Perrie, but after an hour, feeling a bit worried and bored and, well, lonely, Liam goes to investigate.  
  
(If he notices the knowing looks traded by the other three bandmates, Liam doesn't say. As it stands, he should probably look up the word _codependency_ in the dictionary just so he can read the definition in smug superiority to the rest of them. It's not as if he's being weird about Zayn, it's just your normal run-of-the-mill concern.)  
  
Feeding himself that half-truth and ignoring the gnawing in his chest, Liam takes a series of twists and turns before bursting through the doors to outside the staging area. Where he finds Zayn lurking in a shadowy corner, head ducked and arms loose at his sides, foot tapping a nervous beat against the concrete ground.  
  
Despite himself, Liam is calmed by the sight. Although what kind of shenanigans are possible inside the arena, Liam’s not even sure, but it’s usually Zayn and Louis who find a way to break something or get them told off. To see him standing here, unobtrusively and so quiet is a bit of a relief.  
  
And then it’s not. Because really, upon closer examination, Liam can see that Zayn looks _miserable_.  
  
"Knew that wasn't just for decoration," Liam points out lamely after a moment, for want of something to say. He gestures to the cigarette in Zayn's hand, the same cigarette that had just hours earlier dangled precariously from behind Zayn's ear.  
  
Zayn smiles, but it's a tense thing, a thin line of his lips and nothing at the eyes. A stream of smoke seeps from his mouth as he says, "It'd be a bit crap for decoration." A wink, just the barest flicker of his old self. "Doesn't even match my eyes."  
  
Liam leans against the wall with Zayn, quiet for a moment as he takes in the slightly haggard planes of his friend's face, the stubble on his sloping cheeks and the sleepless grey smudges under his lashes.  
  
"Nah," Liam agrees. "You've got beautiful eyes."  
  
If it weren't for the sincerity that fairly drips from his tone, Liam knows Zayn would laugh. As it is, a wry grin twists across the other boy's face, a certain fondness in the flick of his cigarette as he rids it of ashes.  
  
"Aren't you a charming lad," Zayn says dryly.  
  
Liam would agree, but he hadn't been trying to charm: Zayn's eyes are beautiful, even framed by a face that looks weary to the bone. As Zayn inhales, the burnished brown of his irises look lit from within, and Liam tilts closer unconsciously, like a plant in the sun.  
  
Zayn doesn't seem to notice. Instead, he leans over and slings a companionable arm around Liam's neck, his body warm if slight as it presses against Liam's side. For a moment, Liam lets himself curl into the half-embrace as he always does, head ducking to knock gently against Zayn's chin, arms winding around Zayn's waist. They stand like that, in a cocoon smelling of smoke and heat and breakfast food and cologne and shampoo and a little bit of sweat, things that remind him of Zayn so much that it sort of stretches at Liam's heart, making him feel full to the brim with contentment.  
  
Then Zayn whistles a note, and the sound weaves through the din of the Olympics and the more muted thuds of their hearts beating. Immediately after the note, Liam feels the tremor of Zayn's breath against his hair, a slight hitch that says something's wrong.  
  
Straightening, untangling, already feeling slightly cold (and slightly ridiculous, as its the warmest summer he's seen in London in years) Liam asks, "Can I charm an answer out of you, then?"  
  
Zayn squints, looking wary. He takes one last drag of his cigarette, throwing it on the ground and stamping on it. "Depends on the question," he answers, a cloud of smoke obscuring his face. "I'm not telling you what the nine stands for."  
  
Liam rolls his eyes. "Like you even _know_ ," he says crossly. Zayn grins a silly grin that all but confirms Liam's accusation. Not to be deterred, Liam plows on. "No, I want to know what's got you so sad."  
  
Zayn goes still. Gone is the easy, pliant Zayn and in his place is a paler, more terrified looking bloke. For a moment, there's something so young about him that Liam can't understand why it feels so familiar. And then in a flash, the memory arrives.  
  
This is the same Zayn who used to sit backstage before live shows when they were on the X-Factor, muttering prayers under his breath and practicing the most ridiculous runs in a voice so soft it was like he was humming. The same Zayn who would insist on more feedback after every rehearsal, harsher criticism, who would work his vocal chords till they sounded a bit raw, who would study musician after musician and try to hit the same notes. The Zayn who took several months before he seemed settled in his skin when a mic was in hand, and who took a whole year before his smiles after his solos began to look self-satisfied.  
  
Liam gapes. "Zayn," he asks, "Are you _nervous_?"  
  
Zayn scowls, and in that second, Liam knows his deduction is correct. What he doesn't get is _why_. Or how, really. Surely Zayn must know by now how incredible his voice is? Surely he can't be worried about absolutely smashing tonight's performance?  
  
But the shrug of Zayn's shoulders, the way he bites his lip and looks away mutinously, makes Liam realize that, yet again, his own limitless optimism and unwavering belief in this band isn't being transferred to his bandmates.  
  
Which is a fair reminder, he supposes. Liam's always been almost religious about his love for the job, ridiculously aware that the pressures and the demands are all a part of the package that helps him sing for a living. And singing? Well, music in general's a stronger call to glory than any Sunday spent in a church pew, and performing with his four best mates on concert stages all around the world is the way he gets to practice his faith. The singing...and the songs...it's all something nearly holy to Liam.  
  
"What?" Zayn asks, and even amidst his visible jumpiness, there's that half-smile on his face again, the one that speaks of a quiet, calmer feeling, though it's still burning with a sort of intensity. "You've got a funny look."

Liam shrugs sheepishly. "Just thought of a really cheesy analogy," he admits. He cocks his head. "Or is it metaphor? Never been too good at figuring out the difference, but then I'm a singer, not a GCSE master like yourself--"

And then Zayn crumples. Slumps against the wall, scrapes down to sit in an uneven crouch, his lanky arms folded over his lanky knees, head bowed, shoulder blades shifting in sharp angles against the thin material of his cotton t-shirt, back muscles working as he breathes in and out, great heavy pulls of air.

“GCSE master,” Zayn mutters, “Of course. That’s me, isn’t it? Good for taking exams and video games and bad cover songs on the computer."

Liam is thrown. “Uh, no, that’s not what I meant--” he begins, but Zayn keeps speaking, voice climbing in volume and face buried farther in his arms.  
  
“Should’ve just stayed home, gone to uni,” he says, words muffled. “Become an English teacher, yeah? Isn’t that the plan I always say I had? Loads better than sitting here right now, freaking out. ”  
  
Liam finally crouches down too, concern flooding him, a restlessness itching at his skin as he takes in the awful sight of Zayn falling apart.  
  
“Zayn,” he begins uncertainly, reaching out to squeeze Zayn’s shoulder. It jerks under Liam’s touch, and he tries not to feel hurt.  
  
“No, just.  You should go back. Say I’m sick or something. I don’t think I can _do_ this, man.”  
  
For a fleeting minute, Liam is so appalled at that suggestion that he feels an overwhelming urge to grab Zayn, to tug him to his feet and scream “Are you _mad_? It’s the Olympics, you idiot!” because he remembers this Zayn, too. The Zayn who would rather not try than mess up, the one who almost didn’t audition and who almost didn’t dance, and so he almost lost it all.  
  
And then there’s the warring impulse, the one that makes Liam want to hug Zayn hard and close enough that the mini-breakdown occurring right now will just stop without words, without discussion, because it's unnecessary. It’s unwarranted.  
  
Of all people, Zayn should be the last to worry about sounding good tonight.  
  
Because he always sounds good. He always sounds amazing. There are few things, in fact, that Liam loves more than hearing Zayn take a song and turn it into a bird in flight, melodies and harmonies reaching heights he never knew existed in a way that's so natural.  
  
So instead, Liam whispers, "Stop," carding his fingers through Zayn's hair, scratching at the crown of his skull where the strands are still inky black and untouched by whim (and bleach.)  
  
Zayn tenses, like he's surprised. Still breathing hard, he peeks over his arms, where his newly inked tattoo glares in red and yellow relief. ZAP, it reads, and it reminds Liam of everything he loves about Zayn: the spontaneity, the humor, the surprising sentimentality, the way he is so unapologetically himself.  
  
Except, it appears, when it comes to this.  
  
The thing is, the idea is so foreign to Liam, that something which is a touchstone to him can be such a source of fear for someone else, especially for someone else who does it so often, who does it like breathing, who looks so confident onstage that even the bright lights can't eclipse him.    
  
And in the quieter moments, alone in a hotel room, iPod playing Drake as they lay together on Zayn's bed and stare at the ceiling, it's Liam's greatest honor to provide a bass beat, to listen as Zayn lets the kite string of his voice unravel from its spool, spiraling into the air till it's almost dizzying to hear.  
  
If Liam loves to sing, then he's sure a large part of it is because he gets to sing with someone like Zayn.  
  
How can Zayn not _know_?  
  
In the face of something that's so undeniable to Liam but so uncertain to his friend, Liam has no clue what to say. How to make himself understood.  For the first time in his life, Liam's actually angry that he's not so good with words, that fancy verbal maneuvering and debate and logical reasoning don't come so readily to his mind.  
  
So instead of a well-practiced argument, Liam does the only thing he knows to do. Impulsive, reckless, he leans forward. Curls his hands around Zayn's forearms, tugs him up, and as the other boy's curious gaze tilts upward, Liam tilts his own face down.  
  
And kisses him.  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The thing is, it’s such a typical thing for Liam to do, kissing Zayn just to shock him out of a nervous breakdown.  
  
Lately, one of the of the funnier parts of Liam's slow evolution into Louis-lite is that he seems to think it’s hilarious to ambush people with a kiss when they least expect it. And not just any people-- _all_ people. Friends, security guards, random passerby, _bandmates_. Especially bandmates.  
  
Except (and this is the part that has Zayn’s mouth twitching in a smirk under Liam’s) even though Liam has a real laugh doing stupid things like that, he’s not quite used to sticking the follow-through.  
  
For example: "That wasn’t meant to be like, a _ serious_ snog, you know," Liam says once the kiss runs its course and they break away from one another. His tone is anxious and his cheeks tinged with red.  
  
Zayn, whose pulse is still racing even though the tunnel vision is receding, scrubs a hand down his face and tries not to smile.  
  
"Uh," he says, as eloquently as he’s able given his mind's basically just melted down. "Don't worry, man. Didn't think it was."  
  
Liam sighs, relieved.  Good, solid Liam.  Who’s sort of a cheeky bastard underneath it all, but doesn’t know how to deal with it yet. Zayn huffs out a small snort and reaches over to squeeze the nape of Liam’s neck, unable to help himself.  
  
"Well,"  Liam says, looking mollified as he ducks his head. "Just s'long as you know it wasn't a snog.  Because I'm _l_ _oads_  better at snogging. You’d know it if I snogged you."

  
He looks up and flashes a bright smile, and a bit of tension unwinds itself in Zayn's belly.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind, yeah?" Zayn deadpans. Releasing his grip on Liam’s nape, he shoves a hand in his back pocket, searching for the pack of Marlboro Golds he’d nicked off a dancer earlier. And despite the crooked smile on his face, there’s a lingering thread of anxiety running through Zayn’s limbs as he raises a cigarette to his lips.    
  
Liam’s expression becomes unreadable, and he steps closer, his palm skimming the curve of Zayn’s shoulder.  
  
“It was more of a ‘hey, snap out of it’ kiss, if I’m honest,” Liam says, after a moment. “You okay?" The heat of his hand bleeds through Zayn's tshirt, melts into Zayn’s skin.  
  
Zayn's smile disappears and he gives a half-frown, fumbling with his lighter. "Yeah, sorry about that," he says, embarrassed.  A soft _snick_ and then the flame flickers to life, burning the end of his cigarette slowly.  Zayn inhales, the acrid drag of smoke filling his throat and lungs. There's something comforting in the repetitive motion, plus the steady warmth of Liam's body crowding near.  A little bit more of the cold panic in Zayn's chest loosens.    
  
"Your hand's still shaking," Liam points out, voice low. Worried. "Com'n, Zayn. Talk to me."  
  
Zayn groans, leaning his head back against the wall behind him. "Liam," he says. "Leave it, please?" Liam knows Zayn better than most anybody save Danny and Ant, but there are some things Zayn can't share; some things Liam _couldn't_ understand.  
  
Zayn doesn't realize that he's said it out loud till Liam’s hand slides from Zayn’s shoulder down his arm to tug on his free hand, their fingers interlacing.  
  
Liam says in a quiet voice: "Try me."  
  
Zayn looks at Liam for a moment, a tender and dark feeling curling in the recesses of his ribs.    
  
In the setting sun, a mellow golden light touches Liam's messy fringe and angular cheekbones and lopsided smile. Zayn’s fingers itch for a pencil and sketchbook, and for a second, he’s forcefully reminded of little moments shared drawing out cartoons on scrap paper at signings, of trading quiet laughter over caricatured features, of brushing fingers and the solid weight of Liam's knee against his under the table.  
  
There’s this image burned into Zayn’s brain, like the imprint of the horizon long after someone’s already closed their eyes: his signature, loopy and stark, doodled on the tanned expanse of Liam’s arm. Like ownership, and of something precious.  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn says softly, almost absently. “Yeah, alright.” Because it’s Liam, and Liam is the voice Zayn hears in his head, when even his mum or _dadiji’s_ voices aren’t enough to get him to remember why he’s here, why he’s doing what he’s doing, that he deserves it, he really does.  
  
“Remember when we first moved into our room together, at the house?” Zayn asks, and the sound is thin, purposefully hushed. The memory of those days are so protected in his heart, something he pulls out when time seems too infinite. Even sharing them with Liam, who shapes each moment of every recollection, seems too big.  
  
Liam’s eyebrows dip. “‘Course I do,” he confirms, pulling on Zayn’s hand and gesturing to the ground.  “The others were disgusting, and you didn’t snore.”  
  
With a small smile, Zayn follows Liam to sit against the wall, their knees drawn to their chests, hands still entangled between them. They’re shoulder to shoulder, and Zayn scoots over a centimeter, feels the solid press of his body, lets the steady sound of his breathing draw the next words out.  
  
“I was a bit terrified of everything back then, wasn’t I?” Zayn says. “Like properly scared. Didn’t even really know how to harmonize. Was sure I’d ruin everything, and not just for me, but for you lot, too.”  
  
He shakes his head, takes another drag of smoke into his lungs, feels the scrape of it in his chest. “Had plenty of time to get used to the idea of me not getting through, y’see. But you four...I didn’t want to ruin your shot at everything as well.”  
  
Liam make a small noise at this, bringing their joint hands up to his mouth reflexively, like he’s trying to stop Zayn from continuing. Instead, his breath fans across Zayn’s knuckles, lips brushing the tracery of veins.  
  
Zayn closes his eyes, leans his head against Liam’s, quiff flattening and for once, Zayn not giving a damn.  
  
“And that night we moved out of the big room, into our own. It was half past 2 in the morning and I couldn’t sleep ‘cos I was nervous about our song. You pushed our beds together, stayed up with me and practiced. Ran me through my breath exercises, harmonized my part.” Zayn squeezes his lids shut against a sudden pinprick of emotion. “You believed in me, basically.”  
  
Liam presses his mouth once more to Zayn’s hand, then to his wrist, over the reedy pulse. “I’ve always believed in you,” he says. “And if I’m right, didn’t we smash it during the live show?”  
  
“You have,” Zayn says. “And we did. But the point is, Liam...that fear’s never gone away. Like, sometimes in my head...I’m still seventeen and I dunno if I’ll screw up and have to go back to Bradford, just some loser who tried and didn’t make it. And sometimes, sometimes the pressure is so much I _want_ that, and I hate it because then what about you? You’re showmen, yeah? You and Harry and Louis and Niall, you’re all made for the stage, but me-- I have to work at it.”  
  
Liam opens his mouth, like he’s going to protest, but Zayn cuts him off.  
  
“No, I do. I still can’t count worth a shit, and I miss my cues. Very occasionally, I do those runs because I kind of forget how our songs actually _go_.” He shakes his head, taking another lungful of smoke. “It’s the _Olympics_. Billions of people, not just our fans. People who’ll judge us on three minutes of a song, and I,” he shakes his head again. “I don’t want to let anyone down. I want it to be good, Liam.”  
  
And for a long moment, Liam doesn’t respond. He simply holds Zayn’s hand, and rests his cheek against Zayn’s head, and seems to track the curls of smoke rising from Zayn’s cigarette.  
  
“Do you know,” he finally says, and his voice is thick, rusty, “I’ve never met anyone as dumb as you, and this is coming from a bloke who forgot what Santa was called.”  
  
Zayn scowls. “Look,” he begins irritably, but Liam shushes him, actually puts a finger on Zayn’s mouth, which Zayn promptly bites just to be difficult.  
  
“ _You_ look,” Liam admonishes gently, flicking Zayn’s nose. “Zayn, I didn’t stay up till 3 in the morning that night to teach you. I stayed up to _learn_ from you. You’ve,” he stops, then continues, voice urgent, “you’ve _always_ been the best of us. You’ve got raw ability, yeah? Isn’t that what Savan used to tell you? How it was all about taking what you had and shaping it, refining it?”  
  
Zayn shrugs, but he remembers those words, and how all he could focus on was the last part, the part about getting better, going beyond, not being enough yet. Now, though, like always--Liam’s helping bring the good parts into focus.  
  
“The notes you hit, the harmonies you dig out, man...you’re so much more than you’ve ever been, Zayn, and you’re only going to improve. We couldn’t be here without you. When you left during the competition, and then in America-- _Jesus_ , it was like our arms were cut off.” Liam’s eyes are so serious, so steady. “I wish I had the words to tell you how good I think you are, but you already know. You do.”  
  
He reaches a hand across his chest to tap above Zayn’s heart. “Just stop listening to what that mad brain of yours is nattering on about, for once, and listen _here_.”  
  
It’s so preachy and earnest that Zayn wants to scoff, but it’s also...so _Liam_. His heart is worn plainly on his sleeve because he loves the way he sings: deeply, without guile, with conviction. And just like always, when nothing else breaks through, Zayn listens to this. To him.  
  
Zayn closes his eyes and thinks of singing to crowds bigger than his entire home town. Of girls idolizing him, and Justin Beiber following him on Twitter. Of making money and being able to provide for his family. Of touring, and breaking records, and hearing his voice on the radio. Of meeting his four best friends, of being part of something real and monumental. And all on the strength of a voice not even fully-formed, warbling a Mario song.  
  
The words in Zayn’s heart take shape and sound in Liam’s voice: “If you’ve done all this already,” he asks, so soft it’s almost a whisper, “think of how much more you’re going to _do_.”  
  
Zayn knows that his talent outweighs his luck when it comes to his trajectory to stardom. But this is the first time he’s ever really and truly felt it could be true, deep down in his bones. Because someone else feels it, deep down in _his_ bones.  
  
There’s a feeling like water reaching the brim of a glass, emotion tipping over into Zayn’s throat till he can’t speak. He simply breathes in Liam’s words and the familiar feel of his body, for long moments.  
  
Finally he says, avoiding Liam’s eyes, “If I trip and fall off the lorry and die, I’m haunting you forever. Also if my hat falls off. Never forgiving you.”  
  
Liam bursts into laughter, relief like a balm in his voice. “I’ll be right across the way, ready to leap down and save your pretty face,” he replies, and when Zayn blows a raspberry against his neck in consternation, Liam drops a kiss on the crown of his head.  
  
 _I’ve always believed in you_ , is what Liam said before, sunlight playing across his face, sincerity blazing in his eyes.  
  
And for once, Zayn does too.


End file.
